Daeron didn't even finish the thought — he moved first.
"What—what?" Geryn Lannister froze, glancing around at his men in disbelief. He hadn't expected the prince to simply charge.
In a heartbeat, Daeron seized him by the collar.
Geryn fumbled for his sword, but before his hand touched the hilt, Daeron drove a sharp knee straight into his gut. The air burst from Geryn's lungs in a strangled gasp — he almost vomited on the spot.
"You bastard—"
Pain twisted his voice into a snarl. He threw a wild punch, more fury than form.
Daeron caught it clean, twisting the younger man's wrist until the bones cracked loud enough to echo.
Geryn's eyes widened. "Impossible—"
He was seven years older, taller, stronger — yet Daeron's grip was unmovable, his eyes calm and predator‑cold.
"Idiot," Daeron hissed through his teeth.
With a fluid motion, he rotated his wrist further, making the Lannister's knuckles pop. The boy's composure shattered.
"I yield—"
Daeron didn't let him finish. He snapped his head forward — skull meeting nose with a crunch — then kicked hard at Geryn's leg.
A sickening crack followed. The Lannister went down screaming, splattering mud and blood.
Daeron grabbed his hair and slammed him backward into the dirt.
The scuffle was quick, brutal, controlled.
A fight, after all, only needed three steps: silence the mouth, break the legs, and finish it fast.
One punch. Two. Three.
Within seconds, Geryn's once‑handsome face was unrecognizable.
Daeron's expression didn't change — if anything, he looked bored. Gripping the golden curls at the base of Geryn's skull, he lifted his head and slammed it down again.
From nearby, Count Owen went pale, hiding behind a stack of marble. "Gods above… this is going to be trouble."
But before he could act, it was already over.
"Your Grace! Please!" Owen cried finally, rushing in. "Enough!"
Daeron stopped mid‑swing, breathing evenly. "I'm calm, Lord Owen," he said flatly.
Geryn hung limp in his grasp, face caked with blood and dirt. Daeron studied him with detachment — a man taking notes on cause and effect.
No one had ever dared insult him to his face. Time this city remembered what that cost.
When he finally looked up again, Jon Darry was already finishing his own work. The Kingsguard had moved like lightning, his longsword flashing silver through red.
All eight of the Lannister guards were down. Two were dead with clean throat cuts; one lay gutted in a puddle of blood. The rest groaned weakly on the ground.
"Open your eyes," Daeron said coldly, hauling Geryn upright by his hair. "Look at them. They bled for your arrogance."
The boy's lashes fluttered — he was barely conscious. Terror glazed his eyes, mingling with regret. And as tears traced through blood, he fainted dead away.
Daeron released him, wiping his fingers against his sleeve. "At least he's not entirely hollow."
He knew the story — Geryn Lannister, youngest of Tywin's brothers, supposedly the kindest of them. Fated to vanish on a doomed voyage in search of his family's lost sword, Brightroar.
"Well," Daeron murmured. "Consider this saving your life early."
Owen nearly had a panic attack. "You've struck a Lannister! This will bring trouble — serious trouble!"
Daeron shrugged. "A Targaryen prince put a Lannister pup in his place. How bad could it be?"
He turned his back casually. "Have the marble shipped to my fief. That goldenheart block too. And bring this one"— he nodded toward the unconscious Lannister — "back to the Red Keep."
"What for—?"
"Charity."
As he walked away, Owen wiped sweat from his brow. He knew the Hand of the King would never let this slide.
The Lannisters ruled the court's purse strings; their reach rivaled even the crown's authority. If Daeron thought that meant nothing, he was in for a rude awakening.
Still, the Count had no choice but to clean up the mess — blood, scraps, all.
Fifteen minutes later, tension rippled through the Red Keep like a silent tide. Servants whispered. Courtiers kept their heads down.
Daeron strode through the halls as if nothing had happened. He barely spared the anxious glances that followed him.
The fight was already forgotten in his mind — he had something far more important to confirm.
Up the stairs. Long corridors.
He walked with purpose, a rusted iron hatchet appearing in his hand as if conjured from thin air.
Last night's strange dream — the crow, the unease — and today, the marble from Whitewalls. There was a connection there; he could feel it.
He reached his chamber door and shoved it open.
Shaenie gasped, hands out as if to shield their younger brothers.
"Second Brother!" Jaehaerys cried in relief, running forward — only to be stopped gently by his sister's arm.
Her eyes flicked to the iron weapon in his grasp. "Daeron…?"
They'd all heard the rumor by now — the prince who thrashed a Lannister and dragged his body back to the castle.
And now here he was, axe in hand, facing a chunk of foreign lumber he'd insisted be brought to his room.
"Step back," he said calmly.
He walked to the goldenheart wood block, muscles tensing. Life energy stirred inside him, pooling into his arms.
He swung.
Crack!
The blade bit deep, scattering shards of sap‑dark resin.
Shaenie flinched, shielding the children again.
"Daeron, what are you—?"
He didn't answer — only raised the axe again.
One swing. Then another.
Something was calling to him from inside the wood — a faint warmth, a pull that thrummed beneath his skin.
Not illusion. Instinct.
"Come on… show yourself!"
With a shout, he brought the axe down in a final, full‑force strike.
Thud!
The beam split cleanly in two. Straw spilled out in a golden cloud — and with it, something heavy rolled free, landing softly atop the dry stalks.
An object. Oval. Gleaming faintly red through the haze.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Shaenie gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
"...A dragon egg!"
The words escaped her trembling lips.
Both Jaehaerys and Viserys froze, staring wide‑eyed as the sunlight struck the thing and scattered firelight across the room.
Daeron let the axe fall. It hit the ground with a dull clang as he sank to one knee, staring at the treasure that had just fallen from its wooden shell.
A red egg — smooth, scaly, dusted with faint gold flecks and black spirals.
Alive. Weakly shimmering with residual life.
"Just as I thought…" He exhaled, smiling faintly. "My instincts were right."
The faint pulse under its surface responded, like a heartbeat eager to wake.
And for the first time, in a century and a half, the blood of dragons felt something stir.
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